


We're All Just Walking Each Other Home

by marauders_groupie



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 50 First Dates AU, Alternate Universe - 50 First Dates Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6437728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/pseuds/marauders_groupie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Bellarke 50 First Dates AU.</p>
<p>Based on the prompt I got: "Clarke has memory loss and Bellamy is a security guard at the museum. He meets Clarke one day in his sister’s diner and when she doesn't show for their date the next day he finds out about her condition and how her dad died in the accident so no one tells her. He is insistent on getting to know her so he constructs multiple dates and he falls in love with her."</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>  <i>"I am going to remember this forever," she says, quiet.</i></p>
<p>  <i>"Clarke, don't say that." </i></p>
<p>  <i>She lifts her head to look him dead in the eye and he sees a decision there. "I am. I am going to remember this. I am going to fucking paint this. Just watch me."</i></p>
<p>  <i>He makes a decision, too. No matter how long it takes, no matter how tiring it might be – he’s going to make her fall in love with him. He’s going to make her remember him because her very existence stains his eyelids.</i></p>
<p>  <i>When Bellamy closes his eyes, there’s just constellations and Clarke Griffin.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	We're All Just Walking Each Other Home

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I actually got two prompts for this AU and I admit that I wasn't sure how to do it at first. And then I started writing, got on a writing high where I wrote all of this in a couple of hours, and I honestly hope that you'll like it. The plot isn't like in the movie, except for the obvious things. 
> 
> And yeah, I have no idea why three out of my last four fics have words 'each other' in their titles, it's totally not on purpose. The universe is a weird place, huh?
> 
> Without further ado - enjoy! :)

It all begins because Bellamy Blake’s life is one huge mess.

With his niece Roxie in tow, he bursts into Octavia’s diner at half past six, a mess of flailing limbs and papers for his classes that somehow got unclipped during the short walk from Roxie’s school.

Everyone in the Grounders turns to stare at him and Bellamy realizes his mistake when Octavia shoots him a warning glare, “This is a nice place, Bellamy. Behave.”

“Who the f-“ Another glare and he remembers that Roxie is holding onto his hand, clutching her plushy turtle to her chest with the other, and he quickly corrects himself. “Who the _frack_ taught _you_ that?”

“Mom says you can’t swear,” his niece pipes up, six years old and taking after Octavia. Luck would have it that Lincoln is the calmest of them all and he’s not the one Roxie takes after. No. She’s a little tornado, just like her mom.

It’s only when Bellamy takes a seat next to Roxie, leaning on his forearms, that he notices someone’s watching them.

And quite a someone – long legs in frayed jean shorts, shirt covered in paint smudges and a wave of blonde hair that looks like the girl tried taming it but gave up. She’s got the bluest eyes he’s ever seen and right now, they’re laughing at him without her lips moving.

“Something funny?” he asks. He’s not sure why she finds him so laughable but damn him if he’s not going to figure it out.

The girl shakes her head, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Nothing, just – you look like a mess. It’s cute.” She hands him a sheet of paper, the one he recognizes as part of his essay. Due two days _ago_.  “Also, you dropped this. And, for the record, Da Vinci was the gay one. Not Botticelli.”

Bellamy cocks his eyebrow at her, only slightly irked by the superiority in her voice. “You know your history, huh?”

“Nope. I just know my artsy gays.”

“You know,” he starts, running a hand through his hair. “We’ve got a lot of artsy gays in our museum downtown.”

“Are you offering to give me a tour?”

The mirth is still sparkling in her eyes and there’s just something about her – the disheveled appearance, paint smudge behind her ear, smile curling up the corners of her mouth – that makes Bellamy want to be reckless.

“Yeah, I’m offering.”

She considers it for a second or two and then beams at him. “Sure. See you tomorrow. Does 2pm work for you?”

It’s only when she leaves, slinging a huge canvas bag with little Van Gogh prints on it over her shoulder, that Bellamy realizes he doesn’t even know her name.

 

*

 

He’s not sure why he’s so disappointed when the girl doesn’t show up at the museum. After all, she hadn’t even told him her name so why did he get his hopes up? What did he think – that they’d walk around the place, hold hands and stare at the paintings?

Jesus, he’s an idiot.

That’s exactly what he tells Octavia when he takes a seat at the counter after his shift is done. Being a museum guard isn’t a bad job – he loves history – but he’d prefer actually talking to people about it. This way, it’s just him and Miller snickering whenever he starts ranting about one of the exhibits.

“Wait, you asked the blonde girl out?”

Bellamy nods, taking a sip of his coffee. There’s enough sugar in it to give him diabetes and that’s the way he likes it.

Octavia blinks at him. “What the fuck.”

“Why?”

“That’s _Clarke Griffin_ , Bell,” she shout-whispers, leaning closer to him.  “Why would you ask her out?”

This time, he frowns. It’s a pretty name, in any case, he doesn’t see anything dubious about it. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“She’s – “ Octavia starts, only to huff, annoyed, and pinch the bridge of her nose. Bellamy still doesn’t understand what the hell is going on. “Look, Bell, she’s got this kind of amnesia that – she thinks it’s October 13th of last year. She thinks _every day_ is October 13 th.”

“What.”

Sympathy contorts Octavia’s features and suddenly she looks as young as she was when they lost their mom. Bellamy’s heart clenches immediately, knowing that nothing good can come out of this.

“She and her dad were in a car accident last year. He didn’t make it. Ever since the accident, her family and friends have been trying to make it look like October 13th for her, just to spare her feelings.”

If she was about to say something else, Bellamy doesn’t hear it. Clarke chooses that exact moment to throw open the doors of the diner, announcing her presence with a high-pitched “Hi!” and the sadness on Octavia’s face is replaced by a smile that doesn’t quite reach up to her eyes.

There’s a lot of things Bellamy doesn’t know – he hasn’t been on Oahu for a long time, only six months, but he wonders. When Clarke takes a seat next to him, more polite than yesterday and offering her hand immediately, he wonders how is it that this girl – a green paint smudge on her cheek today, cleaner shirt – gets to be frozen in time and space, cheated and lied to.

And he wonders, of course, whether that’s even fair.

 

*

 

And so it goes. Every day, Clarke waltzes into the diner, sits down, orders blueberry pancakes and gets some cream on her upper lip. She introduces herself to Bellamy, usually with the same words. Sometimes it’s “Hi, I’m Clarke”, other times it’s “Oh, and who are you?”

She’s funny, he notices that. Her jokes are the worst but there is something about the way that she tells them that makes him laugh, her expectant eyes, her frown when he misses a beat.

Bellamy also notices that her favorite shirt is a threadbare washed-out blue-stripe one, reaching nearly up to her knees. She wears it with the sleeves rolled up all the way to her shoulders. There’s always paint in her hair and under her fingernails and sometimes, she brings her sketchbook along.

It’d be a lie to say that he hasn’t taken a peek or two. It’s mostly architecture of faraway places he’s never seen. Paris, London, Rome. Colors spilling over the precise lines. History, but ethereal and infinite at the same time.

One day, she catches him looking and smiles at him. “Have you ever been to Rome?”

Bellamy shakes his head. He’s still unsure how to talk to Clarke because he’s afraid of saying something he shouldn’t, so he mostly keeps quiet, smiles when she smiles first and replies shortly.

“I have. It’s gorgeous. If you don’t do anything else, just go see the Coliseum. Trust me.”

He’s not sure whether today is a day when she knows that he’s working at the museum and taking history classes to get his degree. The days just melt into one another, the only difference is whether Clarke is wearing a blue or a red shirt and whether she’s sketching or just chatting to Octavia.

However, today is also when she glances towards the window and must notice something that makes her frown, a tiny crease appearing between her eyebrows.

“What the fuck?”

She’s up and out of the diner before Bellamy’s had the chance to ask her what’s wrong but he follows, rushing out –

Only to see her fighting with a cop who’s writing her a ticket.

“No, my license plates can’t be expired! I just renewed them!”

“Ma’am, these are 2015. It’s 2016.”

Clarke scoffs. “I’m pretty sure it’s 2015, come on.” She turns around, her gaze setting on Bellamy. “Hey, could you get me a newspaper?”

“Clarke-“

She blinks at him, sighs and keeps looking around until she notices someone with a newspaper tucked under their arm. The old lady hands her the paper when she asks for it and Clarke sticks it underneath the cop’s nose.

The feeling of dread settles into Bellamy’s gut at the same time that guilt starts clawing its way up his throat. “Clarke, don’t – “

The cop stares at Clarke like he’s not sure what to do, eyes flicking towards Bellamy in confusion. It’s a ticking time bomb, only a matter of seconds before she realizes what they’d done. What they kept doing.

“Look, Miss, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you should see the date. It’s April 2nd 2016.”

Clarke looks at the newspaper and Bellamy sees the exact moment when she realizes something is wrong. It begins with her lower lip trembling, just a little, in sync with her hands – now graphite stained. It almost makes him want to scream because there she is – wearing a blue shirt, with today’s paint stains (orange – like the sunset over Oahu), red chucks and her hair is a mess.

By all accounts, things like these don’t happen to people like her.

By all accounts, Bellamy shouldn’t have to ever see her heart breaking on her face – glassy eyes filling with tears, just because someone hurt her while trying to save her.

What a sham.

“Bellamy,” she starts, her voice breaking, “what is this?”

Swallowing hard, he mutters, “I’m sorry.”

It’s luck that the cop leaves, eyeing them warily all the way to his car, but Clarke’s still standing in the middle of the boardwalk, clutching the newspaper like a lifeline.

Bellamy reaches for her cheek, wipes away the tears with his thumb and she just stares at him, lost like he’d never seen her.

“What is going on? What – _how_?”

How does he even begin to explain the extent of it? It’s not even his place to.

Thankfully, it’s Lincoln who appears next to him in that moment, pulling on his elbow gently. “Come on, let’s get inside. I’ll call Abby and Raven.”

Bellamy steers her into the diner once again, his hand hovering over the small of her back, and she shuffles to the last booth. The diner is different now, as if painted by a different light, one of tragedy. Nothing seems quite so vivid.

Her Van Gogh canvas bag is still on the counter, a single charcoal on it. Empty plate of blueberry pancakes, a little cream in the corner of her mouth. She smells like OJ and dreams, but it’s tragic that no one’s given her the chance to achieve them. She’s just running somewhere, without ending up anywhere.

Bellamy takes her hand because Clarke looks like she could use an anchor, but it’s cold underneath his fingertips and he only squeezes harder.

“Your dad died over a year ago, in an accident. You were in it, too, and you have amnesia. I know you might think I’m lying, but I’ve seen it. Every day, you just forget what happened yesterday and it begins again for you.”

She blinks at him. Keeps on blinking, silent tears still streaming. It’s the worst kind, the silent ones. They just keep falling down your cheeks like your heart is too wounded to ever stop them.

“No one told you because it would hurt you so much.” He now knows why they decided to keep it a secret. He’s seen her heart breaking on her sleeve. It hurts like hell. “I know it’s not fair, I know – but they’re good people and they wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me,” she parrots.

“I know – “

“My dad is really dead, isn’t he?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. How do you say anything to that, when it hurts so much to even nod?

Clarke averts her gaze to the old watch she keeps on her wrist at all times. She disentangles her fingers from Bellamy’s to gently trace the crack in the middle of the glass.

When she looks at him again, the tears have subsided and she swats away what little evidence there was of them.

“Thank you, Bellamy.”

He sees her pulling herself together, all those broken pieces that were shattered on the pavement outside the diner. The open expression of hurt on her face is replaced by a blank mask he knows so well.

With that, she gets up.

“Your mom will be here soon, where are you going?”

Chin petulantly raised, determination clear in her voice, she says, “I’ve got business to take care of. Thank you for telling me.”

 

*

 

Bellamy doesn’t sleep for the next three days, doesn’t eat, and really - he shouldn’t care that much for a girl he’s never had the chance to become friends with.

But – he’s seen her. He knows what pain does to someone and every day she doesn’t show up in the diner, it’s like someone’s sticking the blade in his stomach a little deeper.

When she shows up in the diner, it’s with Raven Reyes – the neighborhood mechanic of whom Bellamy is pretty much scared shitless. She’s Clarke’s best friend and dating her other best friend, Wells. They come to the diner sometimes, but not like this.

Not like now – Raven standing next to Clarke and glaring daggers at Bellamy until the blonde turns to her and whispers something.

“Fine. But he’s an asshole.”

“No, he’s not. He’s the only one who told me the truth.”

That stings, he sees it in the way Raven winces, and the two of them approach him. He’s been trying not to openly stare, but even the fact that Clarke remembers him is enough to shock him to the core.

When she joins him with a pleasant smile on her lips and greets him with, “Hi, Bell” – he’s not sure what to do.

“You remember me?”

Clarke shrugs. “Sort of. Not quite. I have a notebook.”

She gets a green journal out of her bag, neatly labeled ‘Memories’ and proudly shows it to him. She’s still wearing what he guesses is her dad’s watch, but she’s also wearing a smile which is a victory.

“That’s a good idea.”

She nods. “Raven thought so, too. Do you two know each other?”

“In passing,” Raven replies, shaking his hand with more force than necessary when he offers it. “Raven Reyes.”

“Bellamy Blake.”

She leans in closer when Clarke is too busy ordering blueberry pancakes and chatting to Lincoln, and whispers directly into Bellamy’s ear, “If you hurt her – I’m going to break every bone in your body.”

“I know. I won’t.”

Raven searches his face but doesn’t come up with anything. She just nods, turning around to steal some of the cream on Clarke’s pancakes, laughing when Clarke pouts.

It’s almost easy that afternoon, easy to forget that Clarke won’t remember any of this in the morning. Or maybe she will, because that journal at the bottom of her bag seems like it weights a ton.

And Bellamy wonders why he is important enough to take up space in it.

“Listen,” he starts after Raven has left to look at Octavia’s beat up old truck, “do you want to see the museum?”

Clarke observes him for a second or two, not without a hint of amusement in her eyes and then her smile widens, just fucking explodes in his face until his breath is knocked out of his lungs.

“Yeah, I’d love that.” She gets her journal out, flips a few pages – at least ten of them are filled with ink now. “I’ll even write it down so I don’t forget.”

“You actually stood me up the first time I asked you,” he tells her, not to wound her, just because it’s kind of funny. She’s diligently writing everything down now, her skin orange where it catches the sunlight filtering in through the windows, and Bellamy likes her.

He likes how she seems like a stray sun ray, even when she offers to fight Roxie’s teacher for her, and he likes her same order every day and he likes that she isn’t crying over having lost a year – she just wants to be better now.

He even likes her when she looks up, an amused grin on her face. “I stood you up?”

“You kinda did.”

“Wow.” Clarke leans back in her seat, crosses her arms at her chest. “This amnesia thing is really fucking me up. Who’d stand _you_ up? Look at yourself.”

If Bellamy doesn’t stop blushing for the rest of the day, well. That’s another reason why he likes her.

 

*

 

When she saunters down the hall to meet him, Bellamy realizes that he actually thought she’d forget. But she didn’t, and she greets him with saying his name out loud, reveling in the way it echoes in the marble hall.

“So you remembered, huh?” he asks, letting her link her arm through his. It’s a nice gesture, especially when she’s smiling up at him.

“Yup. Wrote it down.”

“How does it work? Do you remember anything at all?”

What he really wants to ask is whether it hits her hard every time she reads that her father died. He wants to ask whether it hurts all over again. Does she get up to heartbreak in the morning or has the pain ebbed?

Her voice is a little off when she answers. “I remember seeing my dad standing by the car. That’s my last memory. But it’s not – that doesn’t matter. Because I was a little weirded out when my journal said I was going on a date with you but then I saw you and yeah. I know why I said yes.”

Their laughter bounces off the walls, her vibrant one in response to his honestly surprised, and her hand is warm and small in his.

There’s no one else in the museum except for the two of them and it takes Bellamy until they pass a huge glass panel overlooking the ocean to realize that she even dressed up nice. It’s a sundress, paint stained at the hem, but it’s enough to make his heart flip.

He takes her through the museum, lingering at the paintings depicting history scenes – his favorite, as he explains, and Clarke listens patiently.

When they stop by the paintings with stormy sea or young people in love in a vast green field, Clarke goes a little quieter, asks him to tell her what the painting is about.

The sun descends into the sea by the time they’re through and they sit on a bench, watching it quietly. Clarke’s head is on his shoulder, their fingers tangled in her lap.

She sighs and Bellamy looks at her, takes her in. Clarke is the one who keeps forgetting but he wants to savor this moment, this scene of her in her pink sundress, in his favorite place in the world, looking at the sea and finding the same storm in it like the one in her eyes.

It’s hopeless, he thinks, to fall in love with her. It screams heartbreak because he knows one day she’s going to forget to read her journal first thing in the morning and she won’t remember him. He can see it already – her walk, weighted by all those art history books she carries around, maybe a tiny crease between her brows. Walking past him in the diner and ignoring him as he turns around and waits for a kiss.

She might even ask “Oh, I’m sorry, do I know you?” and he knows that it’s the exact thing that might just kill him.

And then –

“I’m going to remember this forever,” she says, quiet. Her voice should be piercing in the museum stuck in a little pocket of space-time made just for them, but it just melts into the distant roar of the waves.

His heart leaks onto his face, and Bellamy wonders if she can see it, beaten and bloody and raw. He wonders whether she can love it – scars and all. “Clarke, don’t say that.”

She lifts her head to look him dead in the eye and he sees a decision there. “I am. I am going to remember this. I am going to fucking paint this. Just watch me.”

Today is not the day he kisses her but it is the day he embraces her, holds onto her tightly because she’s supposed to be the lost one here and she’s still brave.

He makes a decision, too. No matter how long it takes, no matter how tiring it might be – he’s going to make her fall in love with him. He’s going to make her remember him because her very existence stains his eyelids.

When he closes his eyes, there’s just constellations and Clarke Griffin.

 

*

 

Their next date is at the pier, watching the sun set into the sea. Clarke wears boat shoes and mocks him about his sneakers. She gets mint ice cream on her chin and Bellamy swipes it away with his thumb, meets her eyes full of wonder.

It’s Clarke who reaches for him first, fingers sticky from cotton candy because she decided she wanted to try all the candy the boardwalk offered (“In case I forget, y’know,” she told him, winking. “You just want to eat candy.” “Fine, sue me, you shitweasel.”).

She slides her hand under his jaw, smiles before she kisses the corner of his mouth, trails little kisses over his cheeks and his nose, before Bellamy finally turns his head and catches her lips.

Her lips are red and raw by the time she moves away, and she looks as breathless as Bellamy feels.

Victorious, too.

“I’m gonna remember this one.”

 

*

 

Third date is the zoo. They take pictures with llamas (“How the hell did they import them to Hawaii?” “I don’t know, Bell,” she rolls her eyes. “Magic?”) and Bellamy gets her a pirate hat because apparently, that’s what good guys on dates do.

Clarke is the source and she’s not the most reliable one, so he’s not sure whether that’s a thing.

She still wears the pirate hat and kisses him. Pinches his ass and winks, too, because she’s fucking shameless.

“This pirate loves your booty, Blake.”

 

*

 

Octavia corners him one afternoon when Clarke is on a shopping trip with Raven (“Apparently, having amnesia doesn’t mean I can skip shopping,” she complained. Bellamy just kissed the top of her head, told her to have fun) and Bellamy is unprepared.

 “You know that time when I was six and you thought it was a good idea to adopt that family of squirrels?” she asks him, seemingly innocent as she whips up someone’s waffles.

“Um, yeah.” He even winces because he broke his arm falling down from the tree in their backyard. The squirrels declined his offer by scratching his face, he still has a scar.

“Yeah, dating Clarke is an even worse idea than that.”

Octavia does drop the subject after he tells her that it’s not up for discussion but she must sic Raven on him (it’s just Bellamy’s luck that the three most frightening women in his close proximity have been friends for years) because she slams a hand on his car when he goes in for a regular checkup, startling the shit out of him.

Her hands are covered in grease and she’s got a wrench in her left, looking like she’s not afraid to use it.

“Is this some pity shit? Because Clarke hates pity.”

“Seriously? That’s what you chose to open with?”

She hits the side of his car with the wrench. “Answer me.”

“I genuinely like her, Raven. She’s – Clarke. She volunteers in Monty’s animal shelter, wants to go to Europe, eats way too much candy,” he frowns at that, “shit, that can’t be good for her health, can it?”

Raven looks at him like he’s gone batshit crazy, which. Okay, so she might be right. He’s said goodbye to his sanity as soon as he started taking classes to get a history degree.

Bellamy sighs. “It’s not pity. I’m in love with her. And if you’re gonna tell me that I’m hopeless and setting myself up for heartbreak – thanks, I know, I’ve heard it, I don’t need you giving me shit about it.”

Raven stays quiet long enough for Bellamy to start the ignition and it’s only when his exhaust booms that she grins. “Yeah, okay, go right ahead. I trust you now.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Go forth, love the fuck out of her. She deserves it.” She leans into his car, game face on again. “But remember what I said – “

“I break her heart, you break my bones.”

“Exactly.”

 

It’s Wells Jaha who’s the calmest one among their friends and family because he just smiles at Bellamy when he drops by the museum unannounced one day.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Bellamy tells him, nodding to Miller to let him know that he’s going to take a break.

Wells looks genuinely surprised. “You have?”

“Sure. Raven threatened to kill me, Octavia told me I was stupid, it’s just you and Clarke’s mom left now.”

The other man smiles at that, that sort of a wistful smile that’s often stuck on his face. Wells Jaha understands the world and it breaks his heart.

“I actually think you’re good for her. I know – “ Wells worries his lower lip, looks away. A man is throwing tea into the Boston harbor on the painting. “I know she’s been stuck in this one year, but. I think she was lonely, sometimes. Before you. I don’t think she even knew it. It’s different now. Clarke is happier.”

With that, he turns around to look at Bellamy. He sees the same resolve he was used to seeing in Clarke’s eyes, except Wells’ decisions are softer, kinder, but strong all the same. Never let it be said that kindness doesn’t mean strength.

“That’s what matters to me. She’s happy with you and I’m happy you’re there for her. God knows she deserves it.”

Eight months ago, if someone had told Bellamy that he’d move to Hawaii and that it would be a change for the better, he wouldn’t have believed them.

But now he knows.

And he knows that it’s alright to get his heart broken because now there are people who’ll put it right back together.

 

*

 

Their tenth date, Bellamy rents a boat and takes her out to the sea. Clarke wears his old, too big sweater that drowns her out. It’s threadbare but she nestles into it, craning her neck into the collar and pulling her knees up to her chest.

Bellamy watches her, sun setting against her skin, colors leaking everywhere and painting the moment with a tragic sort of happiness. He knows those. Something bad has happened but you are happy, all the same, because it means _more_. Something bigger is happening.

Like the declaration that rolls over his lips and he doesn’t even realize it until Clarke’s head snaps to him, eyes moving away from the drawing she’s working on to focus on him.

“What did you just say?”

It hits him right then and there, her legs dangling off the boat and tips of her toes touching the rose colored water.

“I love you.”

Simple as that. Nothing more to it. Just seeing her and knowing that there’s something in her soul that’s always going to align with his. Seeing her and knowing that it’s right, even if he’s still afraid of the day she won’t recognize him.

It’s Clarke – it’s just –

“You love me?” she asks, a little dumbfounded.

“I do.”

The boat stills on the water. Somewhere far away, a ship has just reached its destination and wants the whole world to know that there is still hope. You don’t have to roam forever.

“Yeah, Bellamy,” Clarke says, the tiniest of smiles playing on her lips. Often, they don’t reach her eyes. This one does, and they’re full of tears. “I love you, too.”

They sleep together that night, Clarke’s mouth just as hungry as his. It’s like a dam that’s finally broken, given up on fighting the endless currents beating against the concrete. They pull each other, and they’re not giving up. They’re just giving in.

She stays over, curled into him and clinging on the same as he does – it’s almost like his life has been a dreamlike haze and he doesn’t want to move for the fear it might dissipate like a soap bubble.

They are too busy exploring each other like they’re going to uncover new universes by touch alone to remember the green journal sitting at the bottom of her bag.

Bellamy wakes up to Clarke’s hair in his mouth and her legs tangled with his and the sheets. The morning light spills onto her back, covered with a flower tattoo – intricate vines he spent hours tracing with his tongue as Clarke laughed last night.

She bats her eyelids open when he stirs and he doesn’t know anything is wrong because her hand is still on his chest, but then she asks –

“Who are you?”

And it’s a fucking hurricane, just under the skin she’s covering with her delicate, paint-stained fingers. His heart starts beating too rapidly, mind torn between getting out of there and staying so he can explain.

But Clarke doesn’t panic, she just watches him, intrigued, until she adds, “You feel important but I don’t know your name.”

That morning, he gets the privilege of getting to know what it feels like to get your heart broken while it’s at its fullest. His grandmother used to say that when you laugh a lot, you know you’ll cry a lot, too, soon.

And he also gets the privilege of seeing what Clarke looks like when she reads the journal, opens it with trembling hands like she knows something bad is about to happen.

She sits at the end of his bed, just porcelain skin and that flower tattoo, one leg curled up under her, and Bellamy watches her shake, watches silent tears stream from her eyes – again – when she starts reading, watches her tremble and sob and reach for her chest like there’s a scream inside she can’t find the strength to let out.

When she reaches the last page, she goes quiet, closes the journal and comes back to him. Bellamy pulls a sheet over her, embraces her with tears in his own eyes, too, and they stay like that for the longest time. Just two shipwrecks, broken by different things in life, but trying to stitch themselves up with trembling hands.

He realizes then just how much he loves her, how inevitable it is, and he can take the heartbreak if it means keeping her safe and by his side.

Because it takes a hero to wake up destined to cry and still decide to fall in love with the world all over again. Clarke does this every morning, he now knows, wracks her body with pain that pulls her stitches and leaves her raw wounds exposed.

And still, she comes to the diner with a smile on her face, having made a decision not to give up.

That’s what it means to be a hero. And he’ll love her for as long as he lives.

 

*

 

Eleventh date, he walks her home and they sit on her porch, talking until the sun rises.

“We’re inevitable, Bellamy. I keep forgetting and I keep remembering.”

 

She makes a point of telling him that she loves him first thing, on their twelfth date. They have a picnic on the rooftop of the museum and her laughter spills across the town.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Clarke repeats the words like she’s never going to run dry of them. He tells her just that.

“I’m not,” she replies. “I’ll always love you.”

I love you, I love you, I love you. The acceptance letter of New York University for a two year history program burns at the bottom of his closet but he wants to stay with her. He loves her. Nothing else matters like Clarke matters, sleepily waking up to him and smiling even without reading her journal.

 

After that morning, Bellamy never lets her wake up alone. Miller covers for him and Abby makes him coffee when he stumbles over to the Griffin residence and waits for Clarke to wake up. It’s not much, being there to hold her when she rereads the last page (First note: _Your dad is dead. You’ll be fine, even if you miss him. Remember the good things. He wants you to live.)_ but at least she’s not alone.

The pain wanes until he’s there one morning and she just cries quietly, leans on him as he promises her that it will get better.

“Tell me about what I’m like now,” she begs of him, sleep-mussed hair and paint-splattered shorts on the hardwood floor of her bedroom. There’s drawings she made when she was a kid stuck to the walls and he loves her.

“You are incredible. You are an artist, you have friends and family who love you, and you love them, so much. You’re covered in paint every time I see you, you love blueberry pancakes, and I love you.”

“If yesterday’s Clarke could fight, so can I.”

He kisses her and tastes the fight on her lips. “That’s the Clarke I know.”

 

Twentieth date, she marches into his apartment with a letter in her hands and fury blazing in her eyes.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me!?”

Bellamy stops frozen in his tracks, as if suspended in time and space. He knows what the letter is about, knows who probably gave it to her. Octavia.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m not going to go.”

“Yes, you are!”

He frowns at her, a hurricane trapped in his living room. “No.”

“Bellamy, you _are_ going. This is amazing, why wouldn’t you go? You’ll get your degree and get paid for the nerdy stuff you do anyways.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

She walks up to him, pokes him in the chest with her index finger. Her nails are purple today, hair held up by a paintbrush. Classic Clarke. “You are going!”

He catches her wrist, brings it up for a kiss. Her pulse beats steady on. “I don’t want to go away. My life is here.”

Clarke shoots him a rueful smile. “You mean – me?” When he doesn’t answer, she shakes her head. “I’m not letting you miss out on a great opportunity because of me. Besides, I’ll come visit.”

Her hand leaves his when she moves to sit on the couch. It’s days like these that he wonders whether she remembers, sometimes. Maybe just bits and pieces, even if it’s his freckles she likes to wax poetic about when she gets drunk.

“Or are you worried I’m going to forget about you?”

It’s not fair and it makes his heart beat like a war drum. He wants New York, but he wants Clarke more. She’s the one who needs him.

The couch creaks when he sits down next to her, skin to skin. She looks at him, puzzled, with her hand holding up her head and forearms braced on her knees.

“You need me more,” he whispers, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bellamy. I want you. I don’t _need_ you. You can’t sacrifice your life for me.” A beat of silence. “Besides, I love you and I won’t forget you.”

To prove her point, she gets out her journal out. There’s coffee stains on it, evidence of how much she carries it around. When she hands it to Bellamy, he holds it carefully, as if it’s holy. In a way, it is. It holds the essence of Clarke.

“Just look inside.”

So he does, almost in a trance, searching through it until she places a finger on the one page she wants him to see.

In fuchsia ink, at the top of the page, she wrote:

_Your dad is dead but you’ll be fine, even though you miss him. There are so many good things in your life right now and you have to live. Remember Bellamy. If you can’t, flip the next page._

Bellamy shoots her an inquisitive look and Clarke nods with a wistful smile.

He chuckles when he sees the title of the next page, and it’s just bright purple ink, his favorite color. Clarke smiles proudly when he catches her eye.

_List of reasons why you love Bellamy Blake_

They’re the most random reasons, like the way he drinks his coffee and makes little plays for Roxie to get her to understand history better. His freckles make an appearance in there, too, as well as the fact that Clarke considers him to be a good brother. _Loyal, fair, ridiculously full of love and afraid to show it. The way he smiles at you after a long day. His surprise when you call him by his name, like he was afraid you wouldn’t know it. The way he gets animated when talking about history and mythology. Atlas, holding the world on his shoulders. His kindness towards people who can’t do anything for him._

_You love Bellamy Blake because you remembered him as soon as you woke up and don’t lie to me, Clarke, because I am you and I will kick your ass._

He’s not sure who starts crying first but he knows that they end up on the living room floor, his head on her chest as she cards her fingers through his curls and just repeats, “I love you, I love you, I will always love you.”

 

Thirtieth date, his shirt soaks up her tears when they’re at the airport. She tries to be strong and brave and she is, with every tear she lets out, but Bellamy knows that he’s going to come back.

New York has nothing on Clarke Griffin.

Before he leaves, having hugged Octavia – teary eyed herself – Clarke begs him for another moment, interlaces their fingers and presses another kiss to his cheek.

“I won’t forget you, Bellamy, because you can forget what someone did – but you can never forget how they made you _feel_.”

 

*

 

One morning, eight months later, after numerous Skype dates and seeing Clarke’s face light up after he picks up, she doesn’t reply to any of his texts.

It’s enough to make him skip class that day and frantically try to reach her. Octavia hasn’t seen her, neither have Wells and Raven, and Abby is very cryptic about the whole thing.

Just as he’s about to book a flight to Oahu because fuck everything – this is Clarke, she might need him, what if it was a rough morning and there’s no one for her to turn to, what if she misses him, what if –

There’s a knock on his door.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, fingers rapping against his desk. Should he book a flight – should he wait – should he start packing?

Another knock. This time he gets up, rushes to the door and opens it, ready to scream at whoever’s on the other side.

Except that it’s Clarke, beaming, hair in a crown-like braid and a look of wild happiness in her eyes.

Bellamy is kissing her before he’s even had time to breathe, to think, because she’s there and she still feels soft under his hands but strong – hope and pain and strength and dreams – Clarke Griffin. She still remembers him, he feels it by how she laughs into the kiss, has to move away because it’s messy and the angle is off, but –

“You’re here.”

She nods, dragging her suitcase inside. She’s obviously dressed for New York, neat slacks and a shirt. It feels weird but good, in a way that means that she’s still changing and living. Even if every day is new for her in a way that isn’t for everyone else.

“Sorry for not picking up, it was a long flight.” She grins at him, before rummaging through her bag and coming up with a prospectus. “Check this out.”

It’s a gallery, in Brooklyn, one of the hipster ones set in industrial spaces remade to look modern and elegant. Bellamy is not a fan, but he goes through it anyway because Clarke is here and he’d do anything she asked of him.

“I sent my work, they want it to be in an exhibition.”

“Seriously?”

She nods, suddenly humble, and Bellamy picks her up, twirls her around his small living room. They chase away the cat that’s always hanging out on his fire escape, knock a few mugs to the ground but he’s happy and she’s happy and their lives are going to be fucking perfect.

“I’m here to stay, Bell,” she tells him after he’s let her go, sat on the floor and opened a bottle of wine he kept just in case. Just in case Clarke came, just in case something good happened.

He’d say it sounds incredible, except – ever since Clarke Griffin burst into his life, he’s started believing that anything is possible. Flying pigs? Sure. Girls in pirate hats who pinch your ass and use the worst pick up lines? Sure.

Bellamy doesn’t have a problem with the world anymore.

So he kisses her again, licks into the taste of wine on her tongue, makes sure she knows that she’s wanted, that she’s appreciated, that she might be a hurricane of a girl but to him it’s the best possible thing she could be.

A month later they’ve stopped counting the dates, and he stands next to her as she talks to the gallery owner. Her painting is a hit but Bellamy’s heart beats faster every time he looks at it for a different reason entirely.

It depicts two people, a girl, whose hair is golden, with her head on a curly-haired man’s shoulder. The world around them is purple but they are glowing as if lit up from within.

Bellamy looks at Clarke, catches her smile, puts it in his heart for safekeeping, and thinks – yes. Yes, the two are lit up from within. There is a glow in their hearts no rain could extinguish.

There is a glow in their chests that is going to bring them home every single time.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it! I hope you guys like it, I really do, and if you did - it would mean the world to me if you let me know. **Kudos & comments** are the best possible way to do that. Tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, scream at me in caps lock, do your thing and know that you'll make one fic writer really happy. :D
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> p.s. i'm also on [tumblr or as I like to call it - my trash can. Come join me!](http://marauders-groupie.tumblr.com)


End file.
